


Christening

by purplelaterade



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 20:52:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplelaterade/pseuds/purplelaterade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bed in Clara's new flat requires some breaking in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christening

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly plotless smut. I'm not all that sorry. Spoilers for Day of the Doctor (which I am also not all that sorry about, since it aired a while ago and I'm pretty sure any unofficial moratorium on spoilers is long over, but fair warning just in case).

It takes some time (that nasty business with the Zygons and the saving Gallifrey and all gets in the way a bit), but they finally get around to those moon cocktails.

Clara drinks one too many, or maybe two; she loses count at some point. The Doctor’s psychic paper has made them out to be some kind of Neptunian nobility (“First colony was set up about four hundred years ago after a political split on Jupiter,” he says into her ear, breath warm on her neck; “quite a bit of the upper echelon of Jovian society decided to relocate there – well, I use the term ‘decided’ loosely, the Thursday Rebellion gave them a bit of a push – but they didn’t get a half-bad deal, there’s some lovely views-”), so the bartender keeps her in good supply on the house. She even pesters the Doctor to drink one, laughing at him as he pulls faces between sips through the first half of it, and once he’s got one in him he’s more amenable to another, and another.

He can’t quite keep pace with her, though, so when he finally gently suggests she may have had enough to drink he’s much steadier on his feet than she is as he leads her out of the pub. The bartender bows and scrapes as they leave. Clara tries to bow in return and nearly pitches forward, the Doctor grabbing her around the middle to prevent her tumbling headlong into the man. His arm doesn’t leave her waist all the way out the door and into the narrow back alley where they parked the TARDIS; she twists clumsily in his grasp and gets him against the hard cold stone of the pub wall, falling inelegantly into him. She reaches up, a hand on either side of his face to pull him down to her, the way it happened once in another life (and more times since: the TARDIS dressing room, the palace in the Living City of Vaniea, a café on the lone planet at the heart of a spiral galaxy). Unlike that time in the hall of the captain’s manor, his palms slide flat, resting on her hips, pulling her in even while he murmurs her name as a warning against her mouth.

“It’s going to rain,” he says, right as she feels something wet hit the back of her bare neck. She wouldn't have expected it would rain on the moon, and normally it would be the type of thing she'd ask the Doctor about, if only to listen as he described it with terms and explanations she'd never understand, but just then one of the Doctor’s hands leaves her hip, fingers coming up to ghost along her jaw and over her lips, and the fluttering low in her belly is much more important, much more urgent; she can ask about the rain any day. “And this is a less than ideal spot for… things.”

“S’okay.” Her hands drop, finding his, tugging him insistently (though unsteadily) toward the TARDIS. “Better idea.”

“Which is?”

“I’ve got a new flat,” she reminds him, voice low, “and a bed that needs breaking in.”

* * *

 

(“Should you be flying right now?” Clara asks, the question occurring to her as she sits in one of the TARDIS chairs – standing in a moving TARDIS could be dangerous even when stone-cold sober. “You won’t get arrested for… for flying while inebriated or crash us into a planet or something, will you?” She puts her heels up on the chair and wraps her arms around her knees, tugging them to her chest; her dress, already dangerously short, slips down her bare thighs.

Facing away from her, the Doctor scoffs and flips two switches at once with a flourish. “Clara Oswald, I’ll have you know I could fly this ship in my sleep. Have done twice. Won a bet. Never make a bet with me, I’ll always win. A little bit of Ganymede vodka? Nothing.” He rounds the console to reach for a lever, but that affords him what she can only assume is a generous view of her knickers and he misses by a good six inches, hitting instead an orange button that causes the TARDIS to wobble like a chair with one leg too short until he presses it a second time. She smirks. She’s a bit more potent than a cocktail.

“What exactly was in those drinks, anyway?” she wonders aloud, and the Doctor rattles off an ingredient list to her three times but none of the names manage to stick.) 

* * *

 

By the time the Doctor parks the TARDIS she’s regained most of her balance and the worst of the haze has left her head, but there’s still enough of a buzz left to fuel her. It’s a tight squeeze in the small flat that was all she could afford on her starting teacher’s salary, but it’s dark and quiet and they’re alone when they step through the doors and into her living room and as he kisses her, pinning her with her back to the paneled TARDIS wood, space is the farthest thing from her mind.

They stumble slowly through the living room, working around still-unfamiliar furniture placement to the hall, pausing every other step because Clara can’t stop threading fingers through his hair and pulling him down to her. The Doctor hisses against her lips when he bumps hard into the corner of her end table, grumbling “oh, this is ridiculous” before scooping her easily into his arms; she lets out a squeak of surprise and mild indignation, but it definitely makes it easier to kiss him so she supposes she’s not too put out. He takes a couple long strides before pausing, glancing around; she hasn’t yet given him the grand tour of the flat. Which is something that will have to wait until the morning as she’s already managed to get his bowtie loose (the thin strip of fabric lost to the shadows of the darkened hallway) and has gone to work on the top buttons of his shirt.

“Bedroom.” It’s more a demand than a question from him and she uses her foot to point through the dark to a half-open door (the motion costs her a shoe), her mouth too occupied with pressing kisses to his now-exposed collarbone to answer him properly. On his skin is the scent of Ganymede vodka and the tang of the time vortex.

When he moves to deposit her on her bed she winds her arms around his neck so that they fall together, a mess of limbs (the Doctor always is, though). While she kicks off her remaining shoe and goes back to removing his vest and undoing the rest of the buttons on his shirt he rolls her onto her back, planting a knee firmly between her thighs. His hand slides up her bare leg, under her dress, fingers brushing the elastic at the bottom of her knickers; her hands still over the fabric of his vest as she sucks in a breath and arches involuntarily. Everything freezes for a moment as he stares down at her, his face just visible in the dim light filtering in from the streetlamps below the window. Then he pushes past the elastic and she bunches his vest in her fists at the contact.

It’s slow for a while, almost achingly so; he dips his head and kisses her, tongue circling hers with the same long, lazy, light strokes his thumb is making against her sex. Her hips roll in time and she wants to beg him to go faster, press harder, but between the running and just _life_ it’s been a while since anything that wasn’t hurried and frantic and desperate and it’s nice, sometimes, to slow down, sneaking moments like stolen photographs.

Eventually she works all his buttons free; he pulls his hand from her knickers in order to shrug off the material, tossing it haphazardly to the side somewhere. Clara’s hands come up to rest one over each of his hearts, feeling the rhythm. For a moment an echo beats in her chest. She slides up along bare skin slowly, linking her fingers together behind his neck to pull him down next to her. He props himself up on one arm; with his free hand he trails fingertips up and down her leg as he looks at her.

By now it’s far from the first time she’s been with him like this, but there’s something different about the two of them here in the bed of the tiny London flat that’s hers and hers alone – it’s strangely intimate, almost domestic, like bringing a bloke home after a night out. Which is exactly what she’s done, only the night out was cocktails on the moon instead of the pub down the street and the Doctor is hardly a normal bloke.

The Doctor hooking fingers round the top of her knickers and tugging them down brings her back to the moment and she lifts her hips off the bed to aid in his removal, wriggling out of them; she kicks them off just as his hand moves back between her legs. When he slips a finger up inside where she’s already wet she kisses him roughly; a second follows, curling into her, and she gasps against his mouth. The heel of his palm creates friction and warmth, enough to make her kisses stutter and coax involuntary sounds from her, and as he speeds up he murmurs into her hair, alternating between her name and Gallifreyan that she almost-but-not-quite understands. Her sighs and motions urge him on, and she buries her face in the hollow between his neck and his collarbone, clutching at him, raking nails down his back, shivering and shuddering….

She first comes like that, around his fingers, one hand entwined in his hair as she tumbles over the edge with a cry. He pulls out of her slowly and she fights the initial wave of lethargy that hits as she comes down off the high, opting instead to sit up and yank the stretchy material of her dress over her head, thankful she’d had the foresight to pick one without buttons or zippers that needed fiddling with. This leaves her in nothing save her bra; the Doctor divests her of that last bit of clothing as she curls next to him. One of his hands brushes from her neck to her bum, all along the length of newly-exposed skin. Clara’s legs tangle with his as he draws her in closer with a palm on the small of her back. As she tilts her head up to kiss him she can feel him through the fabric of his trousers, hard against her thigh, and her hands move to the button as she mumbles “your turn” against his mouth.

Once he’s out of his trousers and pants she wraps one hand around him, sliding down to the base and back up. He groans and she does it again and then a third time, settling into a steady rhythm that she tries to keep to even as he thrusts erratically, and she bites her lip to stifle a laugh; always impatient, her Doctor – maybe not so unlike a normal bloke in some ways. He’s muttering in Gallifreyan again; endearments or curses, she’s not sure which. The hand on her back moves to her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple once before he brings his head down to take it into his mouth, tongue flicking lightly at the tip. As he kisses his way up from her breast to her ear he pauses every so often to graze at her skin with his teeth, sometimes carefully, sometimes almost hard enough to hurt. There’s a particular spot just below her shoulder where he lingers long enough that she’ll have proof of his attention in the morning. When he reaches her ear he breathes her name into it, low and hot, and traces the outline of it with his tongue. Combined with the return of his hand to her breast, palming it almost greedily, it’s enough to make her squirm and her hand move faster, eliciting a groan from him.

The Doctor rolls onto his back, grabbing Clara in the same motion in order to pull her atop him, and she keeps her grip on his cock just long enough to position it so that she can settle onto it, letting out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding as he fills her. She rocks forward, placing palms on his shoulders to steady herself, and the Doctor moans from his spot underneath her.

He’s already close, bucking up as she grinds. His urgency fuels hers; she shifts in order to lean down, mouth hitting his so hard their teeth clack, and the pressure from the new angle twists the coil low in her core tighter. Clara catches his bottom lip between her teeth, sucking at it, pressing her forehead to his, slick with sweat. The Doctor’s breath comes in short gasps, fingers digging into her hips as he pulls her against him, nails creating pinpricks of pain that she ignores because she’s right there, light building in her vision, mouth going slack – movements becoming quicker, shallower, reaching a precipice – she’s alternating between his name and curses and he’s pleading with her and she runs a hand from his jaw down to where they’re joined and he arches up into her, hips leaving the bed, and –

He comes first with a strangled cry, holding her down on his cock as best he can as he thrusts with the pulse of his orgasm; hers hits just as the final wave of his is receding, harder and deeper than her earlier one, muscles contracting around him as she shudders. The Doctor’s hands leave her hips to cradle her neck and tangle lightly in her hair as she drapes herself over his chest, face pressed into his neck. When she kisses it it leaves a salt taste behind on her lips, and the earlier smell of Ganymede vodka is gone, replaced overwhelmingly with sweat and sex.

They stay like that for a moment, heavy breathing slowing to normal, before Clara reluctantly slides off of him and falls to one side. Her arm falls across his midsection, and she could almost sleep there except that the cool air of the room combined with the sheen of sweat covering her body is making her shiver. The Doctor gathers her to him, pulling back the bedspread and tucking it over the two of them, and she returns to her earlier position.

“You made a right mess of my new bedding,” she says, stifling a yawn. Her legs find his under the covers, tangle with them.

“It was _your_ idea,” the Doctor points out, “and I believe you helped a bit.”

“Yes, well, maybe tomorrow _you_ can ‘help a bit’ with the laundry.” This time the yawn escapes her, and the Doctor presses a kiss into her hair.

“Worry about that in the morning, dear.  Get some sleep. Doctor’s orders,” he adds, with a low chuckle; if her eyes weren’t closed, she would have rolled the

“Yes, sir.”

“Sweet dreams, Clara.”

“Sweet dreams, Doctor,” she echoes.

She’s just on the edge of sleep when it occurs to her that she doesn’t actually know if the Doctor dreams at all; she tries to form the question, but she’s too far gone – her brain won’t send the signals to her mouth or vocal cords.

Maybe in the morning.


End file.
